The Battle of the Queens

by Виктория Холт

  Alexander the Second of Scotland – a young, warlike king of some twenty years – had soon after the death of John taken the opportunity to invade England; but when Louis had been defeated, a peace had been brought about with Scotland. The terms of the treaty were now being considered; the King of Scotland was eager to marry one of the English princesses. To wait for young Isabella who was only six was not so convenient, whereas Joan who was ten was much more suitable. In two years – perhaps one – she would be marriageable.

  Hubert with Langton decided that he would ask for the return of the Princess Joan without delay while intimating to the newly married pair that there would be no dowry.

  * * *

  Joan longed to get away from the castle. There was no one to whom she could explain her melancholy. She had been so frightened when she had first heard that she was to marry but Hugh had disarmed her and then charmed her, reconciling her to her fate to such an extent that she had come to long for it.

  And it was not to happen. She was left to wander about the castle alone. It was true she had to take her lessons and her governesses would accompany her when she rode out. But she always tried to elude them. She wanted to get away, to be alone, to think of what had happened to her.

  She supposed she had come to love Hugh.

  He was kind whenever they met; he would look at her in a half apologetic manner if her mother was not with him; once he had tried to explain that the way in which he had behaved was in no way due to her. When her mother was with him he took little notice of her – nor did her mother.

  She felt she had become a person who had to be looked after but who somehow had no right to be there, and that they were all waiting for a suitable moment to push her out of sight.

  Hugh was obsessed by her mother. His eyes never left her when they were together; the timbre of his voice changed when he addressed her; his hands would caress her when he spoke to her.

  ‘The Queen has bewitched my lord,’ she overheard one of the serving women say.

  It was true that he was like a man bewitched.

  I came here to marry him, she thought, and now my mother has done that, so what of me?

  She tried to ask her mother. ‘Oh don’t bother me, child,’ was the answer. ‘When the time comes something will be arranged.’

  ‘Shall I go back to England?’

  ‘I know not. Be thankful that you have me here to look after you.’

  ‘But you do not look after me. And everything has changed now that you are Hugh’s bride.’

  ‘It was all so natural,’ she said. ‘Remember I knew him so well in the past. Now, why are you not at your lessons?’

  ‘It is not time for them, my lady.’

  ‘Then you should ride with your women – or perhaps you should have your dancing lesson.’

  She had turned away. It was clear that her mother did not want to be bothered by her.

  She knew that Hugh’s conscience worried him. Perhaps he knew that his gentleness and eagerness to make life smooth for her had won her love. A look of sadness would come into his face when he saw her, trying to overshadow the blissful expression which was there in her mother’s presence. It never quite succeeded in doing that for Joan knew he only thought of her when he saw her and then did his best to forget that she had been his betrothed.

  Once he said to her: ‘You will go away from here one day, Joan. Your brother and advisers will arrange that. They will find a young husband for you. It is best for you.’

  ‘No,’ she had cried angrily, ‘it will not be best for me. Please do not let us pretend.’

  ‘Oh but it will,’ he insisted. ‘You will see … in a few years’ time.’

  That was what he wanted, she knew. He must salve his conscience and he could best do so by promising her a handsome young husband – which would make it all for the best.

  But it would not be for the best. She knew that. All her life she would remember Hugh.

  * * *

  Isabella was pacing up and down the bedchamber, her eyes flashing with rage. She looked magnificent of course but Hugh tried to calm her.

  So I am not to have a dowry! And this treatment from my own son! Of course he is not responsible, I know. He is in the hands of Hubert de Burgh and suchlike. He would never treat his mother so. No dowry! You married without my consent, he says. His consent! A boy of fourteen and I am to ask his consent.’

  ‘He is the King,’ said Hugh gently.

  ‘Of course he’s the King and might well not have been if I had not had the foresight to go ahead with his coronation. He was even crowned with my neck-collar. And he tells me that he disapproves of my marriage and therefore there will be no dowry.’

  ‘We shall have to go carefully, Isabella.’

  ‘Oh, Hugh, you are too mild. You always allow people to snatch what you want from you … when it pleases them. No dowry! Of course there is going to be a dowry. And what does he go on to say: The Princess Joan must return at once to England. You see, they order me! I, the Queen, am being told what I must do by Hubert de Burgh, because my silly little son is incapable of giving orders.’

  ‘If they will not send the dowry what can we do?’

  She looked at him with exasperation. ‘What shall we do?’ she mimicked. ‘I will tell you what we shall do for a start. “Send the Princess Joan,” they say. Very well I shall reply, “Send my dowry. And if one is not sent, nor shall the other be.” ’

  ‘We cannot keep Joan here if they ask for her return.’

  ‘Joan is my daughter. If I decide she shall stay with me, then she stays.’

  There was a glitter in Isabella’s eyes which Hugh had seen now and then. It filled him with apprehension, but being utterly her slave he made every effort to placate her.

  * * *

  So now she was a hostage. Joan heard about it – not through her mother, nor through Hugh – but by listening to the gossip of women and the chatter of servants.

  Her brother wanted her to go back to England but her mother and stepfather would not let her go until they sent the dowry her mother was asking for.

  ‘They’ll never send it,’ was the comment.

  Joan pictured herself wandering through the castle of Lusignan all her life, with the ardent lovers never far away; her mother indifferent to her, her stepfather trying to be, because the sight of her made him feel unhappy while she knew that as long as she remained, he would never be perfectly at ease.

  She pretended to be listless but she kept her ears open for the whispers. They never told her anything. She was resentful of that. It was her life they were playing with and yet she was supposed to be the one who was kept in the dark.

  She heard talk of the King of Scotland. Her brother was making a treaty with him. It was difficult to think of Henry’s making a treaty with anyone. It was four years though since she had left England and Henry had been only ten years old then – the same age as she was now. Not very old for a king; but it was the age when a princess was considered marriageable. Now Henry was a king and making treaties.

  It was a shock to discover that she was involved in the treaty.

  ‘The Princess Joan will go away now,’ she heard one of them say. ‘She must because she is to be the bride of the Scottish King.’

  Hugh did not want her, so she was to go to Alexander.

  ‘I won’t go,’ she sobbed to herself in her bed at night. Yet did she want to stay here?

  Her mother raged against Henry and his English advisers. Everyone had to be very careful how they treated her – even Hugh; because they must all remember that she was not merely the Countess of Lusignan but a queen. Once a queen was crowned she was queen until the day she died and Isabella had been crowned Queen of England.

  ‘I paid a big price for my crown,’ she shouted once in Joan’s hearing. ‘All those years with that madman. And no one is going to forget my rank.’

  The days passed and still Joan went on living the strange life in the shadows, knowing that they did
not want her there and would have been happy to see her go, except for the fact that she was the hostage for the dowry which her brother’s advisers would not send.

  But Stephen Langton and Hubert de Burgh had the power of Rome behind them and one day there was great consternation in the castle, for messengers had arrived from the Pope himself with letters for the Count of Lusignan.

  A terrible silence fell over the castle, for one thing which all men dreaded was that sentence from Rome and it was with this that Hugh was threatened. If he did not return the Princess Joan to her brother he would be excommunicated.

  Isabella laughed aloud when she heard, but rather wildly for even she was afraid of the fires of hell. Of course she was young and, if all went as could be reasonably expected, would have years of healthful life before her, enabling her to slip into a convent for the last few years of her life to bring about the required repentance. But nothing in life was absolutely sure and if she died while under the interdict of excommunication she could expect to go straight to hell.

  She was brazen though. She raged against her son who had called Rome into their dispute. She declared that they would snap their fingers at Henry and his ministers and at Rome too. They would hold on to Joan until the dowry was sent. Hadn’t she a right to her dowry?

  Hugh reasoned with her. She was prepared to face excommunication, she declared. It was not as simple as that, he explained patiently, for when a man was banished from the Church it was not only that he could not expect extreme unction and the services of a priest and so would die with all his sins on him, but the fact was that those who served him would lose faith in him. If it were necessary for him to go into battle he would have lost the battle before he took up arms because all believed that no man could prosper when the good will of God was turned against him.

  Isabella remembered when John had been under a similar ban and how even he, irreligious and defiant, had in time realised that he must escape from it.

  They would lose the dowry then; but at least they would be rid of Joan.

  She listened to what Hugh had to say. Then she went to her daughter’s bedchamber where Joan seemed to spend a good deal of her time. She found the girl looking listlessly out of the window.

  Joan rose and curtsied as Isabella approached. Isabella said: ‘Sit down.’

  Joan obeyed, tense and waiting.

  ‘You must prepare yourself for a journey with all speed. You are leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ cried Joan.

  ‘Tomorrow, yes. You are going home. Don’t tell me that does not please for I have seen how you have been moping here and longing to go. Your brother insists that you go and that with all speed.’

  ‘But I thought that you wished me to stay here.’

  ‘No longer.’

  ‘Then you have your dowry.’

  ‘The rogues still refuse it but you are to go. The Pope has joined in the battle and if your brother were here I would box his ears for his impudence. To call in Rome … against his mother, the ungrateful wretch!’

  ‘You speak of the King, my lady.’

  ‘I speak of a child. Well, you are to go. They have a surprise for you. A husband, no less. You smile. It amuses you.’

  ‘I wondered whether he will be bestowed on someone else before I have time to claim him.’

  ‘That could be. They are talking of betrothing him to your sister.’

  ‘Isabella! She is but a baby.’

  ‘Alexander wants a sister of the King of England. Eleanor has already been promised to the Marshal – so that leaves you and Isabella. It is you they want for there would be too much delay with Isabella.’

  Joan began to laugh rather uncertainly.

  ‘I am glad you are amused,’ said the Queen.

  ‘It is not amusing, my lady, to be thrown from one to the other like a ball with little concern for its inclination.’

  ‘Princesses do not have inclinations. They do as they are told.’

  ‘Not always. You didn’t.’

  ‘I was betrothed to Hugh and John took me.’

  ‘You wanted to go, my lady, I trow, or you would not have done so.’

  She smiled slowly, as though remembering.

  Then she looked at her daughter and said: ‘No. I was forced by your father. My parents would never have dared go against him.’

  ‘But you would, my lady.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he held out a crown to me, did he not? I did not know then that he was a madman … the cruellest madman in the world. And in the end he died and I came back to Hugh.’ She softened suddenly. ‘Be clever, child. Yes, be wise and it may well be that one day you will be able to take what you want.’ She was brisk suddenly. ‘Now, be prepared. Tomorrow you leave. It must be so, for if you do not we shall be excommunicated and that is something your stepfather dreads. It could bring us great harm. So you must go.’

  ‘I will make ready,’ said Joan stonily.

  The Queen’s face softened as she laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. Make the best of your life. Be clever and you should get something of what you want. I hear that Alexander of Scotland is a fine handsome young man.’

  She kissed her daughter swiftly.

  ‘You should rest,’ she said, ‘and be ready to set out at dawn.’

  And the next day the Princess Joan set out for England.

  * * *

  The young King Henry was beginning to enjoy his position. The apprehension which had first been with him when he had heard of his father’s death and realised what, as his eldest son, this would mean to him, had disappeared and the situation was proving to be far more gratifying than he would have believed possible. He could not help but feel some elation at the respect which was shown him by people like the Archbishop of Canterbury and Hubert de Burgh. It was true that they expected him to do what they wanted, but being wise beyond his years he was prepared to follow them until that time when he was able to act with confidence without them. He had immediately realised that what he must do was learn quickly, for the sooner he was competent to make his own decisions, the sooner he would escape from the yoke. For the time being he would remain docile, listen avidly and agree to their advice.

  The days were full of interest. When he was alive William Marshal had insisted that the young King attend meetings of his ministers. ‘You may not understand their discourse,’ he had said, ‘but take in what you can, and in time you will learn how these matters should be conducted.’

  Now William Marshal was dead and his chief adviser was Hubert de Burgh. He liked Hubert. He was not so serious as the Marshal had been. He was warm-hearted, more emotional, far less stern than William Marshal, who had given the impression that he was a man of such honour that all the little peccadilloes of normal people seemed like mortal sin to him.

  Henry was far more in awe of Stephen Langton, the Archbishop of Canterbury – a man whose spiritual qualities set him apart from other men. He was intellectual, a man with a stern sense of duty which had brought him into conflict with both King John and Rome. As he had been suspended from office he had spent much time in writing – sermons, and commentaries on the Bible; he had many detractors, naturally, but Hubert had told Henry that he was a strong man and it was good to have such a man at the head of the Church in England.

  A good man, no doubt, thought Henry, but an uncomfortable one.

  He had recently come back to England to take up his office at Canterbury and Hubert had explained to him that this had brought at least one boon to England, for Stephen had asked the Pope that the Legate Pandulf be dismissed and that during his lifetime no Legate should take up residence in England.

  Much to Hubert’s surprise Pope Honorius had granted this request. ‘Which means, my lord,’ explained Hubert, ‘that while Stephen Langton lives and reigns as Archbishop of Canterbury England is free of any Roman overlord the Pope may think fit to send.’

  Now there would follow a coronation.
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  Hubert had explained the reason for this, ‘True,’ he said, ‘you were crowned soon after your father’s death. That was necessary. But you will remember that it was a hurried ceremony and was not performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Moreover your crown was your mother’s throat-collar. Now we propose that you be crowned in a fitting manner. A king’s coronation is important. It is only when the people have seen him anointed and the crown placed on his head and the barons and prelates have sworn allegiance to him that he is, in truth, regarded as their sovereign. You are now of a more mature age.’ Hubert grimaced. Fourteen was scarcely that, but of course an advance on ten. ‘And, I may add, wise for your years. So there will be another coronation and this time it will take place when the land is free of foreign invaders.’

  So on a May day in the previous year of 1220 he had been solemnly crowned at Westminster by Stephen Langton. It had been on Whitsunday – an impressive ceremony when all the leading barons of the land and all the dignified churchmen had kissed his hand and taken the coronation oath.

  He had enjoyed the day and when at last he lay in bed, physically weary but mentally exalted, he had eagerly looked forward to the future; and from that day he had begun to feel that he was in truth a king.

  It seemed that those about him believed that the coronation had brought about some magic change and the young boy who had arisen from his bed on the morning of that Whitsunday had undergone a great spiritual and mental metamorphosis during the day. They talked to him more seriously than they had before. Apart from his lessons, which had never given him much difficulty, he had to learn of what was happening in the world.

  There was one bogy which continually arose in the conversations with Hubert, the Archbishop and other ministers: the French.

  ‘Let us not imagine,’ Hubert had said, ‘that because Louis realised that he could not keep a hold on this country once your father was dead and you proclaimed King that this means his ambitions regarding it have in any way diminished. We must be watchful of Louis and in particular his wily father. No country ever suffered more from its king than England did with John. You will have to face the truth, my lord, for your task is too important for it to be obscured by sentiments. John was your father and I praise God nightly that in you I see no sign of his nature. You are going to take after your grandfather – King Henry II, one of the greatest kings this country has ever known. England needs such a ruler – now as never before.’